


You?

by AnankeNox



Category: No Fandom, Original Work
Genre: Dissociation, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, POV Second Person, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, first work pls be nice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 16:42:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18154406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnankeNox/pseuds/AnankeNox
Summary: This was a short story I wrote for my higher English creative folio that I thought I might as well post here. I hope you enjoyed reading this about as much as I worried about being sent to the school psychologist for it.Anyway please comment I need to know what you think because I’ve literally shown this to no one apart from myself (and my English teacher but she doesn’t count).





	You?

You wake up at three in the morning. This isn’t uncommon. In fact, this happens almost every night. There’s probably something you could take for it, but anything you’ve been prescribed always seems to go missing. Well, not exactly missing, more like stolen, but you act as though you don’t know she takes them. It’s easier that way, for both of you. You sit up and look around your room, or you try to, at least. The room is pitch black and your eyes are unable to adjust to the almost non-existent light level. You don’t mind, however - you’ve done this enough times that you’re able to navigate the room relying solely on muscle memory.   
Before you can decide what to do you’re already halfway to the door, your feet stepping over any invisible object hidden in the void that come in your way. This could be the copious amount of untouched books and assignments for school or maybe it’s the mass of dirty laundry in dire need of a wash that has been there for weeks, or maybe it’s the multitude of other things in your room which you’ve been too tired to even touch.  
It’s only after you enter the hallway that you realise your body is making its own way towards the bathroom. Almost as if your actions are not your own.

On your way there, you vaguely acknowledge that her bedroom door is closed, which is strange. She doesn’t usually keep it locked unless she... never mind, you can worry about that later.  
Once you arrive you switch the light on, the filament bulb flickers, before going out completely (that should have been fixed weeks ago). Luckily, your eyes have adjusted enough for you to navigate through the darkness and switch on the light beside the sink, almost blinding you after being in the dark for so long. With your new and improved vision, you see the complete and utter chaos that is your bathroom, as well as all the rubbish littered around. The dirty tissues, the crumpled pile of towels in the corner, the empty bottle of pills that were prescribed a week ago.  
Yet you don’t seem to do anything about them, you stare at them for a few minutes, then move on. You look back into the mirror in front of you (has the glass always been this dirty?) and you see yourself. 

It it yourself? You don’t recognise the person in the mirror.

You seem... off, almost unreal, bordering on uncanny valley territory. Your eyes stare blankly, matching how you feel. Your hair looks like a rats nest and has the greasy shine akin to that of a Barbie doll. Your skin feels dirty, like every single piece of dirt and grime is under your skin (When was the last time you showered?).  
You step back from your reflection, not wanting to see this identical intruder any longer. But before you can do anything to stop yourself, you clench your fists and smash them down onto the mirror. Glass flies everywhere. You look back down at your hands and notice that they now have shallow thin cuts all over them, and that some marks are deep enough to draw blood. Yet as you stare at your hands and your arms, you realise that they don’t seem to hurt, not really. Instead, with the pain comes clarity, and with that clarity comes realisation. Because as you stare at your hands, you realise that they aren’t yours at all, they’re the intruders.   
An all too familiar invader.  
But how? How did they get here? And if they’re here, then where are you? You’re in exile. Trapped outside your own body, and you know one quick and easy way to regain control. It worked before, why not now? All you know is that you have to fix it. You have to fix it. Have to fix it. Fix it. Now.  
With hands that aren’t your own, you grab a shard of glass from the counter, the sharp edges digging into your left palm, yet you don’t seem to mind. If anything, it helps. You try to think logically about what you’re going to do, but logic is irrelevant when your brain is trying to win the fight between your natural survival instincts and an uncontrollable urge. Humans evolved to survive, and if this helps you survive then what real reason do you have to stop yourself?   
The real question is: do you really want to survive?   
Before you can answer the question, the sharp edge has already collided with the not-so-smooth outer layer of your skin.  
Suddenly, everything is quiet. 

No panic.   
No questions.   
No intruder.   
You’re on your own again. Finally. 

You slump to the ground, your back propped up against the grimy counter. Your eyes stare vacantly at the open wound, the blood pumps out rhythmically to the beat of your heart. The shard of glass clatters to the ground, your hands too weak to hold it anymore. You have no further use for it anyway, it’s just another piece of trash on the bathroom floor, like you’re soon to be.   
You don’t really know what will happen next and you don’t really care, you didn’t plan for this to happen and you still haven’t answered the looming question. Your eyes wander to the red stain that clings to the bath. Maybe, you think, if it’s anything like last time, she’ll wake up and come find me. But you know it’s not like last time, it’s three in the morning and you noticed that she’d been twitching all day, itching for another fix. You both have your addictions. You wonder if she’s likely to realise that you’re gone, or if she’ll be too high to even notice. However, that doesn’t matter any more. You know the answer to the only question that really matters, even if you don’t want to admit it. And as you drift off into oblivion, your head throbbing due to lack of blood, you wonder whether she will be coming with you, or if it will be the intruder instead.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a short story I wrote for my higher English creative folio that I thought I might as well post here. I hope you enjoyed reading this about as much as I worried about being sent to the school psychologist for it.  
> Anyway please comment I need to know what you think because I’ve literally shown this to no one apart from myself (and my English teacher but she doesn’t count).


End file.
